Reset
by pinkskyline
Summary: Ian made the very difficult decision to break up with Mickey just days ago. He's just not sure why no one else seems to believe they've actually broken up.
1. Chapter 1

Carl was still in juvie. Lip was away at college. Liam was over at V and Kev's. So it was just Debbie and Ian watching TV and Fiona agonizing over the bills when Mickey came in. Without knocking, of course. This _was_ Mickey. He wouldn't let a little thing like that fact that Ian had just broken up with him a couple of days ago keep him from walking right in the house.

"What the fuck are you doing here?" Ian asked.

"Just here to see Fiona," Mickey said. "Hey Debs."

Mickey spotted Fiona in the kitchen and started to walk towards her, and Ian got up off the couch, moving quicker than he had in days and blocking Mickey's path. "What the fuck are you talking to Fiona about? Is it about me?"

Mickey rolled his eyes. "What, do you think Fiona and I are going to plan some evil scheme to kidnap you and make you take mood stabilizers? This shit might blow your mind, Ian, but not everything's about you."

"So tell me, then," Ian said.

"Are we not allowed to talk to Mickey? I like talking to Mickey," Debbie said.

Ian ignored her, and before Mickey gave in and told Ian what was going on, Fiona shouted from the kitchen. "It's no big deal. I just asked him if he could throw some money our way. Money's been really tight lately."

"You can't ask Mickey for money. I broke up with him."

No one other than Ian seemed to find this statement a convincing argument. When Ian didn't say anything else, Mickey rolled his eyes and answered. "I was practically living here for like a year, and I didn't exactly pay my way. I owe some food money and I actually have some at the exact minute Fiona needs it. It's no big deal."

"I meant it, Mickey. We're broken up," Ian said.

"Okay tough guy," Mickey said, but he didn't look terribly convinced.

"We're broken up. That means you don't come over here and give Fiona money like you're part of the family," Ian said.

Mickey rolled his eyes. "You're such a fucking drama queen, Ian. Jesus."

Ian huffed in frustration. "I can't depend on you anymore. None of us can."

Mickey made a doubtful face. "We could just forget the whole break up thing. Honestly I'm not really on board with it. That way I could drop off the money and fuck off home and leave you to your pouting or whatever."

"Mickey! This is serious. I don't want to take the pills, and you won't be with me if I don't. You told me if I didn't get treatment you'd force me to. Well, I'm fine. I don't need any fucking treatment."

"Not right now. But the mood swings will come back."

"I know! Why the hell do you think I want to break up?"

Mickey's eyes narrowed. "You ever talked to anyone about being bipolar? I mean, someone outside the family?"

"Like what, a stranger on the street? Me and my family know more about bipolar than most people," Ian said.

Mickey looked doubtful. "Do you? Because when you all talk about bipolar in this family you talk about it like it's the boogie man. I listened to everyone tell their stories about Monica and I thought, shit, this must be the worst thing in the world. But then I looked it up expecting to see like, how terrible it was, but it's not. You do know most of the stuff on the internet on bipolar is really positive, and about how it's just a chemical mix-up in your brain and it's highly treatable, right? It's like, one of the few mental illness that they totally know how to fix. That's good, ain't it?"

"Only if you take the medication," Ian said.

"Okay, but if you don't take the medication, you might go up on the roof thinking you can fly or make a bareback porno thinking you can't get sick from that shit, and if you do take it, you can get your goddamned sense back. So getting used to a little inconvenience should be worth that."

"A little inconvenience? That's what you think it is?"

"Well, that's all it is, right? I mean, the meds work or they don't. So if they don't work you try some other med. You should be glad you don't have like, an allergy to peanuts," Mickey said.

"An allergy to peanuts? You're losing me here, Mick."

"Yeah, if you're allergic to peanuts and your medication doesn't work, you fucking die. If your lithium doesn't work right away it's no big deal, right? You just try some other dosage or whatever. I mean, it's frustrating, but it'll be worth it when you get it right and you can go back to your life."

"What life, like hanging around with you? Being your boyfriend?"

"I don't know. The army didn't work out but I thought you'd want to go to college or some shit. You can't go to college and get a good job if you're going off the rails all the time."

"I couldn't do that on the meds. They make me too fucked up to read or go to class."

"See, this is why you need to talk to someone who's actually getting it right. You know there's support groups for bipolar people? In a city this big there's probably a support group for _gay_ bipolar people. And the people in those support groups aren't useless tools who lay around feeling sorry for themselves because they had to pop a fucking pill, or cowards who are too fucking scared to ask for help, either. They're professional people. People who made the choice to get better and went to school and hold down a good job. Like doctors and lawyers and shit. Your life isn't over because of this diagnosis."

"I know more about this fucking disease than you could learn in a couple of fucking google searches!"

"Ian, I know you fucking Gallaghers forget this sometimes because you've been on your own a long time, but you're just a kid. You're seventeen years old. Most kids your age are still practically babies. It's okay to ask for help sometimes. Despite what you think, you don't actually know everything."

"Oh, but you do."

Mickey gave him a dirty look. "I don't know shit. But people who have lived with bipolar for twenty years and held down jobs and maintained relationships without sleeping with every gay guy in Chicago know more than both of us about what works and what doesn't."

"It wouldn't make a difference. You don't know what it's like to be saddled with a genetic hand-grenade like that. Don't fucking act like you understand!"

"You got to be fucking kidding me, Ian. Jesus. Remember Terry? You think I don't wonder every day if I'm going to end up like him? Drink a couple beers too many and hurt someone I love? Kill someone I love? Maybe Yevgeny, maybe you? Maybe just some random stranger in a bar I think looked at me funny? Fuck, I almost killed that bitch Sammy. You think I'm not worried that I'm going to end up an evil old man? I mean, shit, everyone says I'm just like Terry was when he was young, you know, except for the gay stuff. Being a goddamned evil fuck is so much worse than just acting crazy sometimes. I mean, fuck. Of course I understand worrying about ending up like my parents."

"It's not the same and you know it!"

"I don't know that it's all that different."

"You would never hurt Yev. You listen when people tell you you're being a dick or you're drinking too much. You can choose not to be like Terry. I can't choose to not be like Monica."

Mickey gave him that snotty look, the one that always made Ian want to kiss him and punch him in the face in equal measure. "Isn't that what you're doing by not even _trying_ to get better? Choosing to be like Monica? You know what, what the fuck ever. I'm going to give this money to Fiona and go."

Ian let him walk into the kitchen and Ian watched him throw some crumpled up bills on the table.

"Thanks Mickey," Fiona said.

"Hey, like I said before, we're family, whatever dickhead over there thinks," Mickey said.

He went out the back door and Ian resisted the urge to run after him. Had to take a minute to remind himself that he'd actually asked Mickey to leave. He sat down on the couch and Debbie gave him a look. "He's pissed off at you," she said.

"I'm not afraid of Mickey," Ian said.

"Yeah you are," Fiona said. She came up behind him and massaged his scalp lightly with her fingernails like she had always done when he was a little kid. "Nothin' scares a Gallagher more 'n someone who really loves 'em."

"He basically just told me I'm being a whiny little bitch. Is that what you all think?"

"Maybe table the decision about medication before you learn a bit more about it. Mickey's right. Our only experience with bipolar is with Monica, and she's hardly the poster child for keeping her condition properly medicated. Maybe you should go to one of those support groups. Ian, Mickey's right. You _are_ just a kid. Maybe we both are. Maybe you need to talk to someone older and wiser. I don't know what you're going through, and Monica is going to give you all the wrong answers. Will you at least do that much?"

"I thought I could depend on you all to love me no matter what I chose," Ian said.

"Oh boo-fucking-hoo," Mickey said. "Cry me a river."

Ian looked up and saw Mickey in the kitchen. "I thought you left."

Mickey looked sheepish and unsure for the first time since he'd appeared in the house. "I just wanted you to know that, you know, even if you want to break up, I'm still here for you. I'll always be here for you. Even if it's just as friends or whatever."

"Can I walk you home?"

"Why, is there a suspicious character hanging around the neighborhood or some shit?" Mickey asked dryly.

"Just fucking walk," Ian said, pushing Mickey toward the door. He grabbed his coat and boots and went after him.

"You got something to say to me?" Mickey asked, but for Mickey, he said it in a pretty non-confrontational way.

"Will you come with me, if I find a support group I want to join?"

"You know I will," Mickey said.

"You're not just fucking with me, are you?"

"What do you mean?"

"I mean I let you go. I set you free. You don't have to put up with this stupid disease. You can go off and have fun and have a normal life. I'm stuck with it. I really did sleep with half the gay guys in Chicago. I'm no fucking prize, and it might take years for me to be the kind of guy you deserve."

"You know it's not the cheating that gets me, Ian. I understand being young and hot and horny and having basically any gay guy you see down for it must be tempting. What gets me is the fact that I'm not convinced you even enjoyed it, most of the time. And you were reckless with your health and mine. You know you didn't wear a condom half the time when we fucked. I know I told you I was fucked for life, Ian, but that was before you came along and made me want things. Made me brave enough to get the things I wanted out of life. I ain't trying to tell you what to do, Ian. But you kicked my ass and made me demand the life I wanted to live regardless of what Terry or Svetlana or the damned neighborhood thought about me. I thought I owed you the same ass kicking."

Ian smiled, and for the first time in a long time, it didn't have that brittle feel his smiles had these days. "So that's why it seemed so familiar."

"I just want you to be happy. It don't have to be with me," Mickey said.

They were at Mickey's door. Ian smiled. "Thanks for the cash. I'll text you about the support group."

"What the fuck, Gallagher? Are we broken up or not?" Mickey shouted after him.

"You figure it out," Ian shouted back without turning, running a little because of the cold.

They'd broken up so many times, and it never really seemed to take. Mickey just pretended the break-up hadn't even happened, or Ian begged and pleaded and Mickey took him back, or they just ended up in bed together somehow without consciously making the choice to jump in bed. They always got back together and it was always better when they got back together than it had been before they broke up in the first place. It didn't really matter if Ian and Mickey got back together right now, because it was kind of a sure thing that they _would_ get back together eventually. No wonder Ian's family had seemed pretty unconcerned about the breakup. They hadn't bought it any more than Mickey had.

Because Mickey had somehow, for some crazy reason, apparently decided Ian was it for him.

Ian had known Mickey was it for him since Mickey had told the whole bar he was gay on his son's christening and they'd battled Mickey's psycho father together. Or maybe since the first time Mickey had kissed him. Or maybe it was the first time they'd fucked. Shit, if he was honest, maybe he'd known it when Mickey had taken a piss on first base in little league.

He'd broken up with Mickey because he'd been frustrated with being everyone's problem instead of just being…Ian. His brothers and sisters were stuck with him, but he could give Mickey a break and let him get on with his life—but only if Mickey actually left, which it didn't seem like he was going to do. The least Ian could do is stop asking Mickey to do something that neither of them really wanted him to do.

The next day Ian was playing video games when Mickey flopped down beside him. "Hey loser."

"Hey Mick," Ian said, "Grab a controller."

"I'm gonna kick your ass," Mickey said.

"I'll press reset," Ian said.

"Can I get some of that action?" Mickey said.

"What?"

"Can we start over? Go back to before I fucked it up so much you don't want me anymore?"

"I'd never set reset," Ian said. "I don't want to change one thing about our story, Mickey. I'm right where I want to be."

Mickey looked sad and confused until Ian took mercy on him, grabbed his shirt and pulled him close for a kiss. Mickey barely even kissed him back, but when Ian pulled away, he clung to Ian and buried his face in Ian's neck with that particular brand of desperate violence that was such a part of Mickey that it made Ian feel safe and loved.

Like home.

"I was scared to admit I had a problem. Scared of what everyone would think of me. I called you a coward for not coming out as gay but I was just as ashamed of being bipolar as you were of being gay."

"Bipolar is kind of a bad word in this house," Mickey said. "As bad or worse as gay was in the Milkovich house. I mean, my dad did awful things when he knew what I was, but I didn't care whether or not what I was hurt him. You being bipolar was devastating to all of you, except for maybe Liam. Just the diagnosis itself was hurtful—almost worse than all the crazy shit you did _because_ you were bipolar. Of course you'd be in denial about it."

"But I wasted so much time I could have spent getting better being stupid. I put my health in danger and yours. I was a slut. And I was a dick to everyone."

"Come on, Ian. You're a fucking teenager. Ain't all that shit your job?"

Ian laughed, feeling light-hearted all of a sudden. Maybe it was because Mickey had seen scary shit growing up so nothing phased him these days, or maybe he just didn't scare easily, but he seemed cool about things that freaked other people out. It had taken a while for Mickey to start seeing bipolar that way, but now he did, and it helped Ian hold his own panic back.

"I don't know if I can promise you that I be a good boyfriend yet," Ian said.

"I can't promise you that I'll be a good boyfriend _ever_ , Ian. We just gotta do what we can do, I guess. I don't like when we're apart. I like living with you and helping you and being helped by you. I like being your partner and knowing we have each other's backs no matter what."

"Maybe we _should_ get married," Ian said.

"Please tell me there's some happy medium in that pea brain of yours between being a sex worker and being married."

"Yeah, but—"

"You're seventeen years old, Ian. Jesus. Relax."


	2. Chapter 2

Ian and Mickey went to the gay-friendly meeting Ian had found online, and Ian had found someone he felt a connection with to talk about being bipolar. Mickey had been convinced it was going to be some sexy old daddy, but actually the person Ian felt closest to was a hilarious goth-girl with platinum-blond hair named Carol. She wasn't really a girl, although there was certainly something girlish about her; she was approaching forty and worked as a dental hygienist.

Ian had been out with her for virgin margaritas a couple of times, and been to several weeks' worth of support meetings before she finally broached the subject of medication over herbal tea. "So what's the big problem with taking medication? Now that you've done your research and talked to everyone about it you have to know that although meds are only part of what makes someone manage this thing successfully, almost everyone has to take _something_ for it. So what's the holdup?"

Ian shrugged. "I guess I see you and the others doing so well and I don't want to fail. I don't want to disappoint my family or Mickey."

"But do you want to want to try, knowing what you know now?"

"Yeah. I want to try. I wish I could do it someplace else. I feel a lot of pressure from my family."

"What about Mickey?"

"We're taking things really slow right now. I don't want to hurt him any more than I already have."

"Have you thought about moving out? What about living on your own?"

Ian gave Carol a hard look. "You remember the part where I'm poor, right? Besides, I don't exactly trust myself on my own these days."

She shrugged. "You could stay with me for a while. I'd even sew you a costume so you could LARP with me."

"Are you serious?"

"Honestly I'm hardly ever home. I don't have to time to do the dishes let alone vacuum. Keep the place clean and you can live there rent free. I have a big house and it's felt pretty empty since the divorce."

"So what, I just hang out at your place as your personal maid until my med regiment starts to work?" he asked.

"Not necessarily. You don't have to leave once you feel better, unless you're like, the worst roommate ever. You stay there until you don't want to stay anymore."

"Can I have people over?"

"Like who?"

"I don't want to have a party. Just my brothers and sisters and Mickey, probably."

"So all the people you can't stand to be around?"

Ian shrugged.

"Ian, I'm talking about us being roommates. That doesn't mean you're some kind of indentured servant. You can have whoever you want over."

They talked it over a couple of more times, and then it became a real plan. Mickey was as much of a cheerleader about it as was possible for him. He liked Carol and probably any plan that involved Ian working towards getting better. Carol was one of the people in the group who argued that people with bipolar could go into remission with a combination of lifestyle changes and medications, and Ian was curious to see if what worked for her would work for him. His family took some convincing, because they thought he had gravitated to her because she argued for doing exercise and meditation and taking lower doses of lithium, and they thought medication was the only answer, but he finally managed to make them reasonably sure he wasn't moving away just so that he could avoid getting better.

Ian had been busy with all this, but he was increasingly concerned that Mickey had been kind of evasive about what he was doing with _his_ time. They saw each other a couple of times a week to hang out or fuck around, and Mickey been kind of cagey. Ian was a little concerned about leaving him alone.

He wasn't worried about Mickey cheating on him; he was entitled, considering how Ian had fucked around on him, besides, although they were together, they hadn't really gotten back to the place where they were expecting exclusivity from each other yet. Mickey said he didn't want anyone else, but that he understood if Ian was too young to settle down with one guy. Ian hadn't slept with anyone but Mickey since they'd broken up and gotten back together again (he wasn't manic so it wasn't that hard to stay faithful), but Ian didn't have enough faith in himself these days to make any promises.

What Ian was really worried about was that Mickey was doing something illegal. He was almost always doing something illegal, but he'd never been reluctant to discuss whatever illegal thing he was into with Ian before, so how much worse would this be?

"You heard anything about what Mickey's up to these days?" Ian asked Lip. His brother had come down for the weekend to help him move some things over to Carol's place.

Lip was rolling a joint. He looked up vaguely. "Mickey and I aren't really in the same social circles, Ian. I don't even live here anymore. Anyway, I thought you were back together. Can't you just ask him?"

"I just worry about him. I worry that he's doing something stupid," Ian said.

Lip rolled his eyes. "It's Mickey. Everything he does is either stupid or mean."

"Seriously?" Ian asked.

"Mickey? He seems like such a sweetheart," Carol said.

Lip rolled the joint and lit it, handing it off to Carol. She took it and inhaled, although she'd lectured Ian about the potential dangers of pot to people with bipolar before. Apparently it helped some people regulate their moods and made other people's mood fluctuations a lot worse. Ian sometimes used a little pot to help him get over the nausea from the meds. Lip coughed a little and asked Carol, "How well do you know Mickey? I mean, did he actually open his mouth? Cause that's how people usually find out he's a psycho. Or he beats the shit out of them."

"Well, he didn't say much at the meeting. But he looked at Ian like he thought Ian hung the moon," Carol said.

Lip shrugged. "Yeah, he does that. I didn't get it at first, but Mickey does really love you, Ian. I hope you're not just stringing him along."

"Now you're going to protect him from me? You just called him a psycho."

"I know what it's like to go out with a Milkovich. They seem like they're the toughest people you'll ever meet, and sometimes even like monsters, but they're just as vulnerable as anyone. Probably more vulnerable."

"I don't need you to tell me about that family. Mickey would kill or die for me. Literally. I know that. I feel bad enough about how I treated him without getting lectured by you on how to treat someone who loves me. Jesus, Lip. You treat your girlfriends like total shit. Like you'd even know how to treat someone right."

"Just make sure you don't stay with him out of obligation because you think you have to make up for things you did when you were manic. He won't thank you for it in the long run," Carol said.

Ian considered this for a moment and then discounted the idea. Loving Mickey had nothing to do with his bipolar. Yeah, he and Mickey were dysfunctional, but not like that. But it was Lip who answered. "Nah, they're like gay Romeo and Juliet. Romeo and Julio or some shit. Destiny brought them together."

Ian took a toke and giggled. "Mickey's shoplifting brought us together," he said.

"Yeah, but of all the convenience stores in all the world, why'd he steal from the one you were working at?"

Ian laughed. "Fate, I guess."

"Have you started any meds yet?"

"I'm going to start tomorrow morning. I refused to take the antipsychotic. The rest of the group said that that was probably the one that was making me feel the worst."

"What did the doctor think about that?" Lip asked.

"She didn't say. But I don't have to take anything I don't want to take. That's part of advocating for my own health. I'm not in a psychotic episode right now, and I might never be again, so I'm going to hold off on that stuff until I'm sure I need it."

"Okay, cool," Lip said.

Ian found out what Mickey had been up to completely by accident a couple of weeks later. He was over at the Milkovich house in Mickey's room when he stumbled over a pile of crap on the floor.

"Is this a book?" he asked.

Mickey walked out of the bathroom, rubbing his wet hair with a towel. "I _can_ read," he said.

Ian reached down. It was _GED for Dummies_. Ian was about to get pissed at Mickey for pressuring him to go back to school before he was ready when he played back what Mickey had just said in his head. "Wait, are _you_ getting your GED?"

Mickey looked bashful. "Actually, I already did."

"Seriously? That's so great! Congratulations," Ian said. He went over and gave Mickey a tight hug. "What made you do it now?"

Mickey shrugged. "Been reading about bipolar. Apparently being around chaotic stuff like crime and stress and shit ain't good for you. I know you didn't like it when I tried to change things about _your_ life before like telling you not to drink coffee or booze and whatever. I know you're taking the steps you need to take and I won't bug you or judge you. But I thought I could change things about _my_ life that might help you. I mean, if you don't mind me not being the Southside thug you fell for anymore."

"Don't you think it's wrong to change who you are for me?"

"Ian, being with you has already changed practically everything about me. But it's not entirely for you. It's not like my life dream has always been to live in a fucking ghetto all my life, Ian. Before you I thought I'd just get killed in a fight or die of a drug overdose or drink myself to death because I hated myself or dad would figure out I was a fag and kill me himself. You made me realize I could be whoever I wanted, even the guy I really am. I don't have to be afraid of anyone anymore. If I can fight off Terry Milkovich I can handle any other fag-bashers in the neighborhood. Besides, I don't want you to get all healthy and realize that I'm the only thing holding you back from the fucking good life. I know when you get all your shit worked out you're going places. I want to be able to go places with you," Mickey said.

Ian felt a stirring of excitement that he hadn't felt since before he'd let his dreams of Westpoint go. Somehow the fact that Mickey—someone who'd never thought he could do anything with his life—had hope for the future, made him have hope for himself, too. "What do you want to do?"

"I don't know yet," Mickey said. "I was thinking private security, paramedics…fireman. You know, something as exciting as crime but like, legal."

"Why don't you just become a cop?" Ian joked.

Mickey rolled his eyes and didn't answer. It was kind of obvious why he didn't want to be a cop. "Any ideas what you want to do?"

Ian shrugged. "I haven't really thought about it since the Army got taken off the table. Fireman sounds good. It sounds close to the Army. But it probably wouldn't be the best thing. I mean, it's probably not the best environment for someone like me."

"Apparently shift work is not the best. Stress either," Mickey agreed.

"There's not many jobs with no stress."

"You got to think in terms of manageable stress. I mean, your job at Fairytale was probably one of the worst things you could be doing. Working at night and sleeping during the day so you screw up your circadian rhythms, constantly meeting new people who might do unexpected things, taking drugs and drinking…almost anything would be better. And Ian, if you want to have some low stress job like working at a book store or selling clothes at the Gap, I'm with you all the way. But you don't have to limit yourself. You learned all that engineering shit for the Army. Maybe you could do building or drafting or something. I mean, I'm not exactly a brain trust over here, but _you_ could do anything you want to do."

"I'm not as smart as Lip," Ian said.

"Hardly anyone is," Mickey scoffed. "Don't mean you're not smarter than a lot of other people."

"How hard was the GED?"

"It was kind of hard, but I've got like a grade nine education. You almost finished school, Ian, and you actually paid attention in class. To me that means you'll kick that test right in the nuts."

"You think?" Ian asked.

"Well, if you don't, you can just get Lip to write it for you," Mickey said.

"I'm sorry I said that shit about only loving you because you were a thug. That wasn't true, obviously," Ian said.

Mickey threw the towel on the bed and took Ian's hand and then drew him down to sit with him. "I thought we pressed the reset button. That means none of our old dumb shit matters anymore."

"I told you I like our dumb shit," Ian said. He kissed Mickey lightly. "No one is ever going to love either one of us the way we love each other. We're too fucked up and we've been through too much fucked up shit together. I kind of love that about us."

"Can I ask about your meds?"

Ian nodded. "I haven't noticed anything too serious as far as side effects go so far, but it's only been a couple of weeks. The good news is I'm still taking them a couple of weeks in. Like, none of the side effects outweigh the benefits of taking the pills right now. I was already kind of in remission, not on a high or low, so I haven't noticed anything really different about my mood. And I refused to take the antipsychotics because they're the ones that made me a limp-dick."

Mickey pushed Ian down on the bed and straddled his hips. "Damn, Gallagher. And here I thought we could score some Viagra. I wouldn't mind you being hard for hours and hours at a time."

"Keep looking at me like that and I won't need Viagra," Ian replied, pulling Mickey's head down so he could kiss him thoroughly.

Much later they emerged from Mickey's bedroom to find Iggy passed out on the couch, beer bottles all around him.

"Yeah, I don't want this to be me in a few years," Mickey said. He kissed Ian softly. "Let me come visit you soon."

"Okay," Ian said. "Maybe I can get Carol to sew you a LARPing costume."

"What the fuck is LARPing? You know what? Never mind. I don't want to know. If it's something that requires a costume I'm fuckin' out."

Ian chuckled softly. "If you're going to go legit and stop drinking so much, you're going to have find other interests. I mean, if you don't like the idea of LARPing you'll have to go to art galleries and museums."

"I'd rather ride a fuckin' rollercoasters and or go to a movie. Or like, learn a martial art or join a boxing club or something."

"Have you actually thought about this stuff?"

Mickey walked toward Ian and Ian backed up until his back was against Mickey's front door. "You know I'll do anything I can to make sure you keep me around," Mickey said.

"Save it for your wedding vows, you fags," Iggy said from the couch. Neither Ian nor Mickey took offense—it was just Iggy teasing them in his rough way. They had both thought he was asleep.

Mickey picked up a shoe and whipped it at his brother, who grunted and whipped it back weakly, struggling to get to his feet. "Ian, grab his legs," Mickey said.

They ran to the couch and each grabbed an end of the struggling older Milkovich, depositing him in the shower. "Don't you fucking dare turn that on!" Iggy said.

"You promised not to call us fags," Mickey reminded him.

"Shit, Mickey, I'd say the same thing to anyone who was sitting around talking about how much they love each other right in front of me. Don't fucking turn the shower on, man," Iggy said. He was kicking and struggling but kind of laughing, too.

"I don't know. Should we show mercy, Ian?" Mickey asked.

"I don't know. I think maybe we should show your brother what happens when you mess with fags," Ian said.

"Fuckin' right," Mickey grunted, turning on the cold water. Iggy sputtered and threw shampoo bottles at them until they turned the cold water off and left him to have a proper shower.

They were still laughing when they got to the L stop closest to their street.

"You stop at Fiona's?" Mickey asked.

"She talks to me like I'm a little kid. When I'm around her I _feel_ like a little kid and it makes me want to be rebellious. And I think I scare Debbie and Liam, like they always think I'm about to do something crazy. I just need a little distance. Would you stop by and tell them I'm doing okay? Tell Fiona I'm going to teach her to meditate. That should scare the shit out of her," Ian said.

"I'll do that. Ian, you look fucking fantastic. Keep it up," Mickey said.

Ian leaned down, resting his forehead against Mickey's. "Thanks for helping me so much, Mick. You've done more than you know."

Mickey smiled sadly. "It feels like all I've done is get you to move halfway across town."

"You encouraged me to find people who could help me take control of this, and then you let me take care of myself. I don't like being dependent, but you made me see that getting help isn't the same as being helpless," Ian said.

"What's next?"

"I'm going to get ripped again like I was when I was in the Army."

"You're already the best looking guy I've ever met in real life, Ian, but I ain't going to argue with you getting those hot-ass muscles again. I mean, _damn_."


End file.
